The War of Northern Aggression
by MissMissive
Summary: "I'll warn you, Alfred Jones: you mess with a Southern Belle, you're gonna get some Southern hell." On December 20th, 1860, one of America's states bursts into his office with some shocking news.


**A/N: Obviously, I don't own Hetalia, but I _do_ own South Carolina as she appears in this story. **

* * *

The door to Alfred's office—or rather, what _should_ have been his office, but was unanimously known to his friends as the 'party room'—flew open with such force that is almost came right off the hinges. Alfred shot up from the chair he had pulled against the wall with a yelp, quickly smoothing his ruffled hair. "I wasn't sleeping, Mr. Lincoln, I swear!" He blabbered quickly. He was met with a derisive snort, and when he put on his glasses and blinked a few times, he saw that it was not, in fact, the President who had interrupted his mid-afternoon nap.

The woman, like him, had wheat blonde hair, but it grew down is cascading waves well past her shoulders. Her cerulean hoop dress was so wide it nearly didn't fit through the door. Pretty hazel eyes glared at him from a beautiful fair face, but the lacy parasol she was beating against her open hand distracted him from her attractiveness and made him think instead of how an upstanding Northern gentleman like himself would defend himself against a madwoman. She had fought with him in the Revolution, and he had seen firsthand what her people were capable of. The icy fingers of fear stroked his spine as he abruptly cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak.

"I have _had_ it with you damn Yankees, Alfred!" The woman cut him off, her Southern drawl no longer amusing with her venomous tone. Alfred gawked at her. "South Carolina-"

"I told you time and time again that I would not tolerate your ridiculous rule, but y'all thought you could just press on, that a bunch of farmers couldn't retaliate against you sittin' pretty with your fancy suits in that White House of yers!" South Carolina spat, waving her parasol under America's nose. Alfred didn't move, trying to wrap his head around what the Southern state was telling him while noticing how incredibly sharp the end of the parasol was, and how easily it could be used to put out an eye. "Well? What do y'all have to say for yourselves?" The hotheaded woman prompted, lifting her chin as she glared daggers at him. Alfred's mouth opened and closed several times before he could put together a coherent reply.

"I…What the hell are you saying, Carrie?!" Alfred spluttered, bewildered. South Carolina scoffed. "Such a gentleman." She said mockingly, "I'm sayin' I'm leaving you. It ain't no "we the people" if you're leavin' us Southerners out of it." She spun on her heel, and this time her parasol nearly did take out Alfred's eye. As she stalked towards the door, the picture of furious grace, America ran after her. "No! South Carolina-!" The Northerner yelled, grabbing her arm. She stopped, giving him a glare that could kill. "I am _not_ your South Carolina, America. From now on, call me the Confederate States of America." She jerked her arm away from Alfred, leaving the latter to stumble a few shocked steps back, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. Her hazel eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And I'll warn you, Alfred Jones: you mess with a Southern Belle, you're gonna get some Southern hell. You Yanks aren't welcome in my country." She stepped stiffly across the threshold, slamming the door to America's shocked face.

* * *

Her dress was in tatters, charred and torn. Her face and hair was smeared with ash as she stumbled through the burned remains of her port city. Only the tear tracks on her face exposed how fair and beautiful her skin has once been. She knelt in the burned-out remains of a courthouse, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Alfred approached her hesitantly, wincing as the rubble crunched under his shoes. He remembered visiting Charleston many times with her, going to parties or watching plays. What Sherman had done to the beautiful city was…unacceptable. _And yet he had ordered it done_.

He knelt beside his once-beloved South Carolina, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Carrie…I-I'm sorry. I'm here to help." He said softly. He felt her tense, and before he knew what was happening, somehow he was on the ground, the battered woman standing over him as his jaw exploded in pain. Her fists were coiled by her sides; she had _punched_ him, he realized with a start. "Get out!" She shrieked. Her voice was hoarse from crying, but it was loud enough to turn the heads of several bystanders. Not giving him time to reply, she aimed a savage kick at his side. "Get out! You-you Yankee _scum_! Carpetbagger! _You_ did this! You son of a bitch! Get _out_!" Holding his face, Alfred scrambled away from her on all fours, followed by her yells mingled with the calls of her citizens. Alarmed, he watched South Carolina take another step towards him, they bystanders egging her on. "Kill him! Kill him! Kill the Yankee!"

Only because Alfred had known her for so long—she was one of his first thirteen best friends—did he realize that she was hesitating. Her eyes were still full of blind fury, but he didn't try to crawl away when she stalked towards him. She attempted to haul him to his feet by the collar of his shirt, but in her dilapidated state, that was an impossible feat. Alfred obliged her by standing, looking at her somberly. "I'll give you one more chance, Alfred: get out—_now_." Her voice was full of malice, the way she said his name no longer the loving drawl when he was simply her big brother, not her enemy, not a Yankee, not a "Northern Aggressor." With one last glance at her marred face, set in stony defiance against him and the United States, he turned and ran.


End file.
